


Talk / Don't Ask, Don't Tell

by irisbleufic



Category: Toy Soldiers (1991)
Genre: Boarding School, Canon Character of Color, Gossip, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-01
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If talk was cheap, Joey decided, then Regis was the bargain bin at Big Lots.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in April of 2005.

If talk was cheap, Joey decided, then Regis was the bargain bin at Big Lots.

Seriously, all that stuff about how guys don't gossip was complete and total bullshit. Within his first few weeks at Regis, just keeping his head down and listening, Joey had learned who was who, what was what, and a handful of things that he hadn't even _wanted_ to know. He'd also learned a good deal about himself, or what people thought they knew about him, and that was how he'd first broken his silence to a guy named Snuffy. Who the fuck named their kid Snuffy? Nobody, as it turned out, but at Regis, that was the way of things. People knew you by rumors and nicknames.

The difference with Billy Tepper was that he'd arrived during summerterm while Joey was painting sets and tutoring, and there hadn't been enough people around to run the rumor mill. They'd ended up rooming together, and when you room with somebody, you talk to him one-on-one, none of that intermediary nonsense. You get to _know_ him. By the time fall semester started, Parker knew enough not to trust them, and made sure they got stuck in a triple. Parker's sources mustn't have been as good as he thought they were, though, because they got Phil, who Joey'd known as long as Snuffy. Phil had a taste for pranks; he just hadn't known it. Billy could bring that out in anyone.

It didn't even take a full week for Billy to make his debut on the grapevine.

"I heard he's been kicked out of three different schools," Greenwalt said, beating his clay into flat, fingerprinted submission on the dingy wooden tabletop. "That's a lot of fucking schools, man."

"No way," Gube replied, poking his lump of clay with a stylus as if it might bite him. "Nobody's been kicked out of more schools than McAllister, and that's two. I heard you get some kind of extra mark on your record if you get booted too many times. Send you to a detention center or some shit like that. My friend's dad works in one."

"Your friend's dad is a fucking dentist," Robert said, his words soft, intent on scoring the periphery of the circle he'd just cut out. He didn't swear much, awkward when he did.

"It's true, you know," Joey said, frowning at the slip on his fingers. He wasn't sure why he'd spoken up, but it seemed wrong somehow to let them keep at it when he was standing there with more authority than any of them. Still, he felt guilty.

"What's true?" Greenwalt asked, looking up. "That they put you in a detention center?"

"No," Joey said, reaching for the tub of water. "That he's been kicked out of three schools. Two in the same year, even."

"No shit," Gube said, sounding impressed.

"How would you know?" Robert asked, eyes narrowed.

Joey shrugged and dipped his fingers into the water, scraping off the excess clay onto the side of the tub. "I roomed with him over the summer, too," Joey admitted.

"Oh, yeah," Greenwalt said. "You guys are just up the hall with Phil, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Joey said, reaching for his stylus again. This was going to get weird fast, and he hadn't intended on participating in the conversation. He'd only meant to correct them.

"Phil says Billy taught him how to pick locks with a credit card," Gube said thoughtfully. "Did he teach you? Son of a bitch wouldn't tell me how."

"No," Joey lied, and started scoring the coil again.

As annoying as it was, shit like that was pretty innocuous. No harm, no foul. Joey found himself keeping his mouth shut, though, the more he heard passed around. He'd found it difficult to look Billy in the eye the evening after art class, and he didn't like the feeling of hiding something, of contributing to the hard time that Billy was facing as it was.

"You okay?" Billy had asked, stepping up beside his desk, peering over Joey's shoulder at his history assignment. "You're quiet."

"I'm doing homework, asshole," Joey had said, reaching for the nearest thing he could toss at Billy, which was a little tiny plastic pencil sharpener—not very impressive.

Billy caught it and chuckled at him, then set a hand on Joey's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Lighten up a little, okay? This isn't summer school. We've got about a week until the assignments get bad, right?"

"Yeah," Joey had said, setting his pencil down. "So, what are you suggesting? A pillow fight?"

"If you want," Billy had replied, smiling the way he never smiled at Phil or anyone else.

Joey had won fair and square, because Billy had made the mistake of letting him.

Soccer started on Monday of the next week, and somehow, Billy had talked Ric into letting him try out for the team even though he'd _missed_ the actual try-outs because he'd gotten detention over something that was, technically, half Joey's fault. It had been worth seeing Gould's consternation over the sundial's modifications, though. Joey told himself that, next time, he wasn't going to let Billy take the fall alone.

"Keep him out of trouble," Ric said on Tuesday after the second practice. "He's a pretty good player, and we need him."

"I'll try my best," Joey said, hanging his towel up inside his locker. Billy had the locker right across the bench from him, slightly to one side, and he was standing there listening to the whole thing. Ric wasn't the king of subtle, and he probably wanted Billy to hear.

Joey sat down and took his shoes off, waiting for Ric to leave. Not so much the king of subtle, either, Billy did the same thing, then scooted around the edge of the bench once Ric was gone and settled beside Joey, kicking one of Joey's abandoned shoes with the toe of his own. Joey kicked back with his bare foot and got tangled in Billy's shoelace. Somebody walked past them on the other side, rounded the row of lockers, and vanished.

"I'm a good player, huh?"

"Not bad," Joey admitted, turning his head to look at Billy. He'd showered just like the rest of them, and his hair tended to look even more unfortunate when it was wet than when it was dry and fluffed out from the humidity. Unthinking, Joey reached over and picked a piece away from his forehead, flicking it back. Billy rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

"C'mon, we're going to miss dinner," Joey said, reaching for his Chucks.

"Wait," Billy said, catching his arm. "There's, uh, something I wanted—"

"You boys on your way out of here?" asked Mr. Gannett, one of the janitors, stumping into view with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. 

"Yeah," Joey said. "Sorry. Just a few minutes, all right?"

Gannett grunted and stumped away.

"I didn't want to mention it when Phil was around," Billy said quickly, as if he felt guilty, had some explaining to do. "He gets out of here pretty quick, so—"

"Time's a-wasting," Joey said, tapping his watch.

"Shut up," Billy said, still looking at him. "I—look, I heard some shit the other day."

Joey shrugged. 

"Yeah, so? Everybody hears shit around here. Get used to it."

"No," Billy said. "It was about you. About your dad. It was the weirdest thing, I didn't—"

"Whatever it was, I don't want to know," Joey said, and stood up. Nothing new under the sun, and he had nothing more to say to Billy on the matter, because he'd said it all.

"Jesus, wait," Billy said, standing up with him, one hand on his shoulder. "Joey."

Joey looked at him, not sure whether he wanted to hit him or cling to him while nobody was watching, and Gannett didn't count because he didn't give a shit anyway.

"Dinner," Joey said. "But I'm touched you wanted to get this off your chest, all right?"

Billy shook his head, then looked at the floor. "No, it's just, I, uh, said a few things, you know," he said hesitantly. "Had to set the record straight."

Joey felt his stomach clench, then realized how tightly he'd taken hold of Billy's arm, and let go. He turned back to his locker before Billy could respond, probably for the best.

In the following weeks, he found it difficult not to feel self-conscious every time he heard his name or Billy's name mentioned in passing. It was the dumbest shit, really—somebody commenting snidely on how he always turned his homework in on time, or somebody admiring Billy's latest prank. The first time he heard their names uttered in the same breath, he stopped dead. He wasn't used to that.

"…that Billy and Joey were behind it, probably," said the sophomore. Joey couldn't remember his name, but he was forgettable enough that Joey didn't feel guilty.

"Trotta? Yeah, right," Gube said. "Haven't seen _him_ in detention lately."

"Maybe that's my point," said the sophomore, half a step quieter.

 _What the fuck?_ Joey tightened his hold on his tray and strained to listen. They were a couple people behind him in line, at least. Reckless dicks, but it was their loss. He hadn't been able to get Billy up for breakfast. Sundays, as far as Billy was concerned, were made for sleeping in, and he had pulled the sheets up over his head with a groan.

"If you're trying to say Tepper covers for him, hell, I can believe that," Gube said, and Joey could hear the shrug in his voice. "Billy's a decent guy. I like him."

"No, I'm trying to say he likes Joey, emphasis on the like."

If Joey hadn't come up to the counter just then, he would've dropped his tray. He was holding onto it so tightly now that his silverware rattled, and he almost missed the fact that José was asking him if he was all right, and did he want sausages?

"No, man," Joey said shakily, trying to smile. "I'm fine."

He spent the next five minutes trying to find the farthest table from Gube and the sophomore that he could possibly find, and after that, he spent the next ten or fifteen staring blankly at his waffles. That little _shit_ , taking liberties as if he— _fuck_. Knew what? That he and Billy were pretty tight? Stupid thing to get mad about, he told himself, and cut a piece of waffle with his fork. "Like" could mean a lot of different things—or anything, or a very specific thing, or nothing at all.

"You sure do start early, don't you?" Billy asked, slamming a tray down across from Joey.

"Jesus!" Joey muttered, almost dropping his fork. "Could've warned me."

"You wouldn't have noticed," Billy said, pulling out a chair. "All right, don't look at me like that. I'm sorry."

"Nah," Joey said, setting his fork down. "It's okay. One of those days, you know?"

"You have a lot of those," Billy said, sounding concerned, which was a new tone of voice for him. For a few seconds, Joey was too startled to say anything, then realized he was staring. Billy was wearing a t-shirt that was cut, distractingly, from shoulder to hem.

Purposefully, Joey took hold of his milk carton and opened it.

"Maybe."

"Look, do people do that a lot?" Billy asked, still concerned.

"Do what a lot?" Joey asked, feeling defensive. The carton was being stubborn.

"Talk about you," Billy said under his breath, and took the carton away before Joey could protest. "The only thing that gets you that pissed off is when people talk shit about—"

"Asshole," Joey said, glaring at him, watching him open the carton with practiced ease. "What would you know, anyway? You and your fucking sleep."

Billy stared at him, handing the carton back, then put both hands in the air.

"I stand corrected."

"Bullshit," Joey mumbled, dropping his straw into the open carton. "You're right and you know it."

Without warning, Billy reached across the table and took hold of his wrist.

"Then would you fucking _tell_ me about it instead of acting like I'm part of the rest of the world? Because, geez, let me tell you, I wouldn't want to get on your…"

"My what?" Joey asked, slowly tugging his hand away, wondering if Billy had even realized what he'd done. "My bad side? Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yeah," Billy said softly, looking him straight in the eye. "I couldn't handle that. For more reasons than I want to get into, even." His mouth quirked into a smile.

Against his better judgment, Joey found himself smiling back.

The big problem was, obviously, that what bothered him wasn't hearing himself talked about. He was used to that; it had been happening since he was in public school, and just because he'd been pulled from there and dropped here didn't mean it was going to stop. He'd moved on. What bothered him was that people were talking about Billy—bad stuff and good stuff both—and that he didn't want that. Billy deserved better.

 _Better than what?_ he asked himself. _Better than gossip, or better than you?_

Joey bit the inside of his cheek and smoothed the bottom of the pot he'd been working on. He couldn't seem to get it right: coils uneven, gaps unfilled. He'd started over twice, and they were supposed to have something worth firing by Friday, and he wasn't halfway.

"Hey, go easy on that," Mr. Silbermann said, setting a hand on his arm as if to steady him. "You're pressing too hard on the walls, see?"

"Thanks," Joey said, and watched him pass on to the next table. He hadn't had criticism for anybody else at Joey's, apparently. Joey stared at his pot in abject hatred.

"I don't think that'll help," Robert said not-so-helpfully.

"No shit," Joey muttered, and squashed the pot flat.

"Ouch," Gube said. "Why'd you do that? It wasn't bad."

"Of course it was," Joey said, and started working the bubbles out of the lump.

Joey stayed after, hoping that nobody else had the same idea—thankfully, nobody did. Having art last period was one of the only redeeming features of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, and he'd rarely had a Wednesday that was so Monday-like it could've fooled him. Silbermann left, too, nodding on his way out. They had this weird, unspoken agreement: they were both perfectionists, and if you get out of the other perfectionist's way, it makes both your lives simpler. He was so absorbed in smoothing the new coils with slip that he didn't notice that the door had opened until it slammed.

"Thought I'd find you down here," Billy said, strolling over with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, your choices are pretty limited," Joey said, letting out his breath, turning his attention back to his work. "There's the library and the gym, and I'm not working on a paper at the moment."

Billy actually laughed – a delighted, genuine laugh. It made Joey's stomach flutter.

"I guess so," he said, pulling a stool up next to Joey. "What's that, a vase?"

"Don't know," Joey said. "I think they're just supposed to be pots, but this is…" He studied it, then frowned. "You're right, it's kinda tall."

They spent the next few moments in silence, Joey wetting his fingers again while Billy looked on so oppressively quiet and still that Joey was sure he was about to burst.

"Hey, look, you can talk – "

"It bothers me, too," Billy said at the same time, an explosion of breath.

Joey looked up, frowning at him.

"What bothers you?"

"Talk," he said simply. "Shit."

"Welcome to Regis," Joey said, disgusted.

"No," Billy said. "It's not that. I know they talk about me, but I don't give a fuck, all right? It's…"

Joey felt the fluttering in his stomach tie itself in a tight, quivering knot.

"It's what?" he asked, concentrating on how the clay felt beneath his fingers.

"You," Billy said. "Those fuckers. I could smash them."

Joey felt the knot fall apart as if a knife had slid through it.

"Look, as touching as that is," he said, trying to sound casual, "I can take care of myself, you know. Talk about who worries too much, sheesh."

"What, you blame me for that?" Billy asked, sounding distinctly offended.

"No, that's not what I said," Joey said. He couldn't bring himself to look Billy in the eyes; he was sure he'd only see hurt and confusion there, hurt and confusion sharp enough to cut him again—and again, and _again_ if Joey let it, and he would.

"I don't want you starting any more fights," Billy said softly.

"Not since summer," Joey said tautly, pushing into the clay a bit too hard with his thumbs. "What is this, anyway, some twisted guilt trip, or have you figured out something really illegal for us to pull on Parker?"

"I had no idea you were this funny," Billy said, only he wasn't amused.

Joey sighed and brushed his hands off, turning to face Billy.

"Okay, I'm sorry," he sighed. He caught Billy's profile instead of Billy's eyes, because Billy was staring straight ahead and out the window. Strange, he thought, that he'd never noticed how interesting Billy's profile was. His hair was never the same any given day.

"S'all right," Billy said absently, turning his head, and the picture broke. And there was confusion in his eyes, and helplessness, and something that reminded Joey of fear.

"What—" Joey hesitated, then ploughed on "— _did_ you hear, anyway?"

"It's not important," Billy said, lowering his eyes. "Same old, same old. You know. I wish these ass-wipes would get a fucking life. It's like they think they know everything. Only girls do this shit, right? Swear to fucking God."

Joey smiled at the floor. He know Billy well enough to know he only swore that much when he was really, _really_ pissed. That Billy was mad on his behalf was…well, Joey wasn't sure. Something that made him feel illogically safe, wanted. It was _sweet_.

"If that was true, we wouldn't be talking," he said, and reached for Billy's wrist.

Billy just stared down at Joey's hand, watching his thumb leave a pale smudge of clay.

 _Shit_ , Joey thought, but he held on anyway. Nobody was watching.

Three days later, he regretted it. He was late to history, and Billy was already sitting near the front of the room, so he had to slip back the nearest row and take one of the seats in the back. When Joey sat down, Billy was still looking at him with a disappointed expression, although "disappointed" probably wasn't the right word. He looked downright _crestfallen_. Joey told himself that it had to be an act; Billy was just trying to get on him for being late. He rolled his eyes at Billy and opened his notebook.

"Fine," Billy mouthed, and turned around, but not before Joey caught his grin.

There was only a moment's silence before McAllister, who was sitting diagonal and in front of Joey, leaned over and whispered to Richardson, "What did I tell you?"

For the rest of the period, Joey scarcely heard a word out of Mrs. Kane's mouth.

The worst part was last period, which sucked even more than Wednesday's had. He was almost finished with the pot or the vase, whatever it was, but he still wasn't happy with the wall thickness or the job he'd done hiding the lines. He stayed after, brooding.

So it was true, then, that "like" didn't just mean _like_.

There was also the problem that it _was_ true.

It wasn't that he was attracted to guys about as much as he was attracted to girls, which wasn't much anyway. He'd gotten over that a long time ago, and it wasn't like he got regular offers. He prided himself on being picky. Class, he always told himself—somebody with class, somebody who can handle your shit, somebody who knows you.

Billy had class; it just…wasn't the kind of class he'd always dreamed of. Billy didn't know _Carmen_ from _Norma_ , but he sure knew nuts from bolts.

"You are fucking crazy," Joey told himself aloud, smoothing slip all over the outside of the vase, because that's _exactly_ what it was. A fucking vase. He had just put it over on the counter to dry and begun to clean up when he heard the doorknob turn.

"You're in awfully late," Billy said, hands on his hips. "What do they do to you down here, anyway? Torture?"

"Nope, but it's what I do to me down here," Joey said matter-of-factly, scraping up more dried clay from the tabletop. "Wanna help?"

"Looks like a blast," Billy said. "You got another one of those…um, thingies?"

"Over in that bin," Joey said, pointing with the stylus he was using to scrape.

At first, it seemed like Billy just wanted to shoot the breeze, but after about five minutes, it was apparent that the more he talked, the wider the circle he was talking. Joey finally took the stylus away from him and put both tools back in the bin.

"I wasn't done with that," Billy said from behind him, disappointed. "It's therapeutic."

"Talk is therapeutic," Joey said, heading for the sink. "Or so I hear," he added, glancing at Billy over his shoulder.

"You're so fucking coy, you know that?" Billy said, joining him at the sink.

Joey turned on the water, hoping Billy wouldn't notice that his cheeks were burning, and shrugged. If he was going to get confirmation, he might as well go for it. He had nothing to lose except his pride, and even _that_ was hanging in tatters.

"I don't know," Joey said, "but everybody else does, right?"

Billy sucked in his breath.

"Jesus _fuck_ , if they don't even have the decency to keep their goddamned mouths shut around – "

"Billy, you're forgetting where you are, okay?" Joey ran his fingers under the water and sighed heavily, reaching for the soap. Billy's hand got there first, and their fingers brushed. Joey gritted his teeth and wrenched the soap away from him. "Nobody around here gives a fuck," he continued, soaping his hands, enjoying the way Billy's hand hovered at the metal holder, fingertips so _poised_ there it fascinated him.

"I sort of hoped you did," Billy said, and let his hand drop.

Unthinking, Joey lowered his own to the bottom of the sink and pressed the soap into Billy's palm, curling Billy's fingers up and around it. Yeah, this was something, _really_ something. In two seconds, Billy was going to punch him, or push him away, or tell him he'd missed his chance. Nothing to lose, absolutely _nothing_ to…

"Fuck," Billy said quietly, and took Joey's hand instead of the soap.

He didn't _taste_ like soap, though, which was a relief and a stupid thing to think, Joey told himself. Billy's mouth moved soft and tentative against his own, and their hands were still all tangled in the sink with the warm water running over them. Joey wasn't thinking, though, or at least not about anything but how unreasonably soft Billy's lips were, so when he brought his left hand up to Billy's cheek, Billy jumped because it was wet and the water had probably cooled and oh _God_ he felt like an idiot.

"No," Billy murmured, reaching up with his own damp hand to hold Joey's in place, preventing Joey from pulling away. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Joey whispered. He lifted his hand from the bottom of the sink and fumbled to turn the water off, wondering if cutting off the sound of the water would snap him out of what was clearly a cruel and vivid dream. He found the handles. It didn't.

"For as smart as you are, you're dumb sometimes," Billy said, almost laughing, and ran his cold fingers along Joey's jaw. When Joey shivered, he brought his other hand out of the sink and set it on Joey's shoulder, then on his back, like he didn't know what to do with it. Joey felt the water soak into his shirt, but he was too fucking shocked to care.

"It's cold," Joey said, staring into Billy's eyes, realizing he'd never gotten this close. He wondered what color combination it would take to capture that indecipherable hue.

"I'm sorry," Billy said softly, and kissed _him_ this time, slow and deep.

Ten minutes later, they left damp and shivering.

Joey wasn't sure how Billy had a knack for getting things right, but the rest of the weekend was fucking torture. Phil was stuck to his bed with a pile of books, and Snuffy kept poking his head in to ask if they had any expeditions planned, or if anybody wanted to play poker for porn. About the third time all three of them said no, he got the message and stopped trying. It was the little things, though—the way Billy held the doors for him on the way to breakfast on Saturday morning, or how they touched more than usual, or maybe it was just that he hadn't _thought_ about touching Billy before. It didn't feel strange, and that was the shocking thing.

After dinner on Sunday, Billy tugged him quietly in the opposite direction from the stairs and led him outside. It was almost Halloween, and, in true New England fashion, the leaves were beginning to fall. Joey didn't have on his hooded sweatshirt, and the wind made him shiver.

"You said you knew the way up to the bell tower," Billy said, taking his hand.

"Yeah," Joey said, amazed that he hadn't thought of this, or maybe it was just that Billy was doing this in more or less broad daylight, as if _daring_ somebody to see, to make something of it. The quad, however, was deserted.

Billy wasn't, as it turned out, interested in seeing the grounds from that height, though he did remark on the nice landscape before drawing Joey's hand up between them in a curious gesture that was not so curious in that it asked, perfectly, if he had leave.

Joey leaned in and kissed him, not bothering to let go of Billy's hand. It was clumsy and quick and everything it shouldn't be in such a private place, but they couldn't stay there for long. The bell actually got rung at intervals, and getting caught wasn't high on Joey's list of priorities even if finally getting the chance to make out _was_.

"This is ridiculous," Billy whispered, both arms around Joey's waist now, breath warm against Joey's cheek. Joey closed his eyes, trembling, not so much cold as burning up.

"What, that we're doing this?"

"No, that we have to fucking sneak around."

"We have to do that anyway," Joey said, tightening his arms around Billy's neck.

"I know," Billy said, then nuzzled Joey's cheek. "I hate it."

Joey's breath stuck in his chest and refused to budge.

"Look, um…I wasn't just screwing with your head when…"

"I didn't think you were," Billy said. "It's what those assholes do."

"I feel like I should thank them," Joey heard himself say.

"Somebody's feverish," Billy said, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Joey's mouth.

Joey gasped and pulled away, finding his breath again. Too much, or maybe too _soon_. He wasn't sure which, but it was definitely too much for where they were.

Billy blinked at him, distinctly hurt. _Shit_.

"Don't look at me like that," Joey said, reaching for his hand. "C'mon."

That night, he followed Billy to the bathroom and kissed him after he'd brushed his teeth. It was quiet except for the way their breathing echoed off the tiles and the sense that this wasn't going anywhere except in circles. He felt Billy hard against his hip and held him there, shaking.

"Look," Joey whispered, "I don't know how we'll get—"

"Skip class?" Billy asked softly, almost pleading.

Joey closed his eyes. This was _not_ what he'd had in mind, but his body seemed to like the suggestion just fine. He pressed closer to Billy, breathless, and heard Billy's voice catch in his throat.

"Which one?"

"Your call."

"Math."

"English?"

" _Billy_ —"

"Both," he said, pulling away, collecting his toothpaste with shaky fingers. "Please?"

Joey chewed his lip. First and second period both, that was risky.

"All right," he agreed, picking up his toothbrush.

Over the years, Joey had had his fair share of long nights, but this was absolutely ridiculous. He'd always had a hard time falling asleep as it was, and he envied Billy his ability to conk out fast and sleep like a log, but it seemed like his usual condition was both pronounced and contagious. Billy tossed and turned on the lower bunk, and Phil was snoring lightly, which made things even worse. At least the nervousness made it easier not to think about certain things. He felt cold, though, and alone. If nothing else, he wanted to climb down there and hold Billy, reassure him that morning would arrive.

At some point, he fell asleep, but it was a light sleep, and every now and then he'd hear a sharp breath from below him or a catch in the snoring across the room. Billy was right about his being feverish: half-waking hours had _always_ felt like that.

Joey woke to sunlight and the sound of the door closing.

For about five minutes, Joey lay still, completely awake. He wondered why Phil hadn't bothered to try getting them up and out the door—usually one of them harassed the others if somebody or multiple somebodies didn't seem to want to go to class. All of a sudden, Billy shifted on the mattress below him, and Joey's heart stopped. Was he supposed to go down there, or was Billy coming to him? Better not let him, Joey decided. The top bunk could be dangerous. He sat up, carefully pushing the covers down, and crawled for the ladder. 

When he got down low enough to touch the floor with one foot, he peered through the slats, squinting. Billy was sitting up, shirtless, squinting back with a look of confusion that faded fast into a look of relief. He sank back a little, resting on his elbows.

"'Morning," he said, then yawned. "Um…thanks."

"Don't mention it," Joey said, and walked around to the side of the bed. He sat down on the edge, certain to duck his head so he wouldn't hit it off the wooden frame overhead.

"Shit, you didn't sleep," Billy said unexpectedly, reaching out to touch Joey's cheek. His fingertips skimmed up to Joey's left eye, tracing a gentle arc.

Joey took hold of his hand, squeezing it.

"Neither did you."

"Yeah, well. Phil had no problem."

"Phil could sleep through anything," Joey said, and brought Billy's hand down to his mouth. He hesitated, unsure of whether he should kiss it or just hold it.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to test that theory," Billy said, anxious, and tugged on Joey's arm. "Get over here. It's chilly. Promise I won't bite."

Joey felt an irrational thrill. They were _skipping class_ ; there was no way in hell he should be happy about that. Somebody would notice them missing, both of them, and report them to Parker. Or not. Was it too early in the school year? _Fuck_.

"Shhh," Billy whispered, even though Joey hadn't said anything, and ran his fingers from Joey's temple down to his jaw before leaning in, all sleepy eyes and messy hair, and kissed him full on the mouth.

They were in a bad position, and Joey knew it. Really fucking clever of Billy to do that. Joey had to shift forward and lean over Billy, backing him down against the pillow, nearly halfway on top of him. Billy tasted like faded toothpaste, and he sighed into Joey's mouth like he meant to drift off like this. Billy's hair was as soft as Joey remembered it, faintly damp with sweat. He ran his fingers through and sighed, too.

"You okay?" Billy whispered, his other hand tense on Joey's shoulder.

"Yeah," Joey whispered back, and kissed him harder.

Whether it was the difference between Billy's touch and room temperature or the mere fact of what they were doing, after a few more seconds, Joey started to shiver uncontrollably. Billy made a sound that might have been startled laughter, then pushed Joey away gently and said, "Here." He lifted the covers and nudged at Joey with his foot from underneath them, indicating that Joey should get up and crawl under. It didn't take any second thoughts, but it didn't keep the shivers from getting worse even once Joey was under and snug in the crook of Billy's arm. He couldn't figure out what to do with his hands. He set his right against Billy's hip and spread his fingers, breathing in deep.

Billy jumped, then went still against Joey, heart pounding.

"Sorry," Joey whispered. "Didn't mean to."

"That's a disappointment," Billy said with a nervous grin.

 _Fuck_ , Joey thought, leaning in to nuzzle Billy's shoulder. _He's rattled_.

"Asshole," he mumbled, then kissed Billy's collarbone. It was satisfying to feel Billy jump again and start shivering just the way he'd been shivering.

Billy said something, but it was more breath than sound in Joey's ear.

"I want you."

Joey froze, mind spinning blank. If he hadn't been hard before, which he _had_ been, then he was definitely hard now. That was the kind of thing you only _dreamed_ of hearing. He kicked at the covers and swung his leg over Billy's hip, pulling Billy in close. No fucking around, then. He had no idea what he was going to do, but hell, if Billy wanted him, he was willing to improvise.

"You too," he said softly, burying his face in Billy's neck.

It didn't mean he wasn't terrified.

"Joey," Billy whispered, rubbing his back. "Hey. If it's too – "

"Nope," Joey said, steeling himself, and let his hand slide back the way it had come, just a few inches, and slide back down again, careful to catch the waistband of Billy's boxers.

"Oh, fuck," Billy muttered, fingers tightening in Joey's t-shirt.

The skin across Billy's hipbone was warm and soft, smooth under Joey's palm. Joey let his fingers spread again, finding the crease of Billy's thigh even though it was cramped between them at an awkward angle. Billy's erection brushed the side of his thumb, hotter than the rest of his skin, and Joey had to get the tremor in his hand under control before he could bring himself to kiss Billy and whisper in a rush that he wanted him naked.

Billy groaned and kissed him back, pushing against Joey's hand.

"I had, um… _oh God_ , no idea…"

"Neither did I," Joey said, struggling out of his shirt while Billy kicked the covers all over the place and swore. It sounded like he was trying to get undressed too fast. Joey sat up and kicked out of his boxers—amazing how simple, really—and turned around.

"No, I mean I had no idea you'd talk dirty," Billy said, sounding embarrassed as he finally kicked his boxers on the floor. "Or that you'd like it."

"I don't think that counts as dirty," Joey said, reaching over to tug on Billy's arm. "That was just being honest."

"Then I wouldn't mind hearing dirty," Billy said, but he was blushing furiously, and his breath caught when Joey's fingers brushed the inside of his elbow.

"You're so fucking weird," Joey said, and shifted over before he could second-guess himself, settling in carefully so that he straddled Billy's lap.

Billy stared at him for a moment, breath visibly catching, then put his arms around Joey's waist. Joey scooted forward when Billy tugged at him, sighing, letting his head rest on Billy's shoulder. He couldn't breathe, either, and as awkward as it was, he shifted onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Billy's shoulders, painfully aware that he was all angles and that he'd never felt anything as fucking _amazing_ as this.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Billy mumbled, abruptly letting go, hands falling to Joey's hips, pushing at him. "Joey, I'm gonna—"

"You idiot," Joey whispered, holding on, eyes closed tightly as he rocked back into him. "I don't _care_."

"Oh," Billy breathed, hands slipping, then wound his arms around Joey again, clinging for dear life. "Oh, _Jesus_ …" He pressed his lips to Joey's neck.

"Yeah, fuck," Joey heard himself breathe, too lost in the moving, too lost in Billy's muffled moaning to care. He had to let one arm drop to brace them against the mattress, because Billy was _really_ fucking gone, and in a few seconds, he would be, too.

"Oh, _Joey_ ," Billy groaned, and went still under him except for how hard he was shaking. 

"Yeah," Joey whispered, turning his head to nuzzle Billy's neck. Under the haze and sweat and urgency, he felt fiercely protective. He let his arm come back up and wrap around Billy's waist, kissing Billy's neck softly. "Like tha—oh, fuck. _Fuck_!"

Joey wasn't sure what he was saying anymore, but he was coming, coming _hard_ , and Billy was still holding him, hadn't collapsed under him. He sagged as it ebbed away, boneless, and closed his eyes. Billy was whispering something in his hair.

"Don't want to move," Joey murmured after a while, finding his tongue sluggish.

"No," Billy said quietly, rubbing his back now. "Don't have to."

"Good," Joey whispered, and curled tighter around him. This wasn't the way this was supposed to go, was it, the two of them clinging like letting go would kill them?

"Joey…"

"Hmmm?"

"People will talk," Billy said gently, turning his head to kiss Joey's cheek.

Joey was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to go like this, but fuck, he _wanted_ it to.

"They talk already, douchebag."

"Yeah, but—"

"How many times have I told you, I don't fucking care?"

Billy sighed, but he didn't shy from kissing Joey's cheek again.

"Enough."

And for the moment, or maybe forever, it was.


	2. Don't Ask, Don't Tell

**I. Gube**

Geoffrey Hammond, like any Regis veteran, had come to consider himself one of the pack when one of the inconsiderate fuckhead seniors had dubbed him Goober in his first year on the wrestling team. Eventually, due at least in part to Hank Giles's best efforts at standing up for his fellow sophomore, Goober was eventually shortened to Gube. It actually sounded kind of tough, and it turned out to be useful, as there were at least two other Geoffreys—one spelled Jeffrey—that he knew of. Regis was small, but the collective parental naming scheme distinctly lacked creativity.

Besides, when a guy like Billy Tepper could call you Gube and still convey his deepest respect, that counted for a hell of a lot. It also helped that Gube hadn't stayed scrawny for long. By the end of sophomore year, he was as buff as Hank, and by the start of junior year, he was number two on the team.

Sadly, jocks weren't exempt from certain elective requirements, which was how he got stuck in Silbermann's eighth-period art class with Greenwalt, Robert Anderson, and Joey Trotta, who was quite possibly the only guy who actually wanted to be there. Understandable, though, when his only other strengths were that he was smart and that he was fast. And you didn't, under _any_ circumstances, want to let him throw the first punch.

Joey'd been acting kind of strangely since the semester had started a couple weeks ago, so Gube thought it was probably prudent not to be too lighthearted in conversation. Even a joke could go the wrong way when you were dealing with an angry dude who was at least half Sicilian. Nobody knew anything about Joey's mother, except that she was dead. If anybody knew, it was probably Billy.

Two days after the conversation about picking locks with credit cards, and several bad pinch-pots later, Billy showed up at the art room as they were all hastily gathering up their stuff. Well, everybody was doing that except Joey, and Silbermann rarely had any other choice than to let him stay down there and beat the clay or pastels around for as long as he wanted. Gube shouldered his bag, watching out of the corner of his eye.

Billy was leaning on the table, saying something to Joey that he couldn't quite catch. Joey was intent on the clay he was scoring, but his eyes kept flicking sideways, as if he was afraid Billy would think he wasn't paying attention. Billy just kept on going, though, unfazed. He didn't seem bothered at all.

Robert tapped Gube on the shoulder, jerking his thumb at the door.

"Do you still want to go over that trig before dinner?"

Gube didn't answer immediately. Joey was looking up from his work now, grinning, and Billy was leaning in even closer than before. It made sense, kind of—the Mafia don's son and the ultimate Reject. Why hadn't he seen it before? He just hoped to hell they wouldn't get in any trouble...or do anything where _he_ could see it.

"Pretty tight, aren't they?" he said to Robert, starting for the door.

"Um, yeah, so?" Robert asked, struggling to catch up. "I thought we established that the other day. I wouldn't have thought you were that interested."

"I'm not," said Gube, yanking the door open and holding it for Robert. _Not really_ , he thought, and let it swing closed. He caught one last glimpse of the pair inside: Tepper and Trotta, lost to the world.

 

****

II. Mr. Gannett

Generally speaking, nobody wanted the janitorial jobs—which was why Charles Gannett always went for them first. He'd always been decent at keeping the house and his two younger sisters, his mother had always said, and heaven knew, she'd appreciated it. If Charles ever met his father, he'd lay the guy out flat, then give him a piece of his mind. You didn't leave a lady as good as his mother, especially not after you'd knocked her up three times and made like you were going to stick around even though things were rough.

Most of the boys at Regis had at least minor trouble at home, if not major, and somebody had to help look after them. Even if it meant just picking up tennis shoes and making sure the locker room showers didn't grow mold. Charles had always wanted a son, but his wife had left him before they'd had the chance to discuss children. She'd seemed to think he was a nobody going nowhere, but that was her business, and he was better off without her. The boys, the school, the grounds: they were a hell of an interesting life.

Still, after a really long day, it was annoying when the guys just didn't seem to realize he wanted to finish his job, go home, have a beer, and get to bed. Tepper and Trotta, otherwise great kids, were terrible. He was lucky if he could scrape them out with more than two warnings.

He peered back around the row of lockers he'd just cleared, realizing they were talking in pretty hushed tones. That was always concerning. It could mean something was wrong; it could mean there was something Dean Parker had better know about. Everybody knew about Trotta's father, but Charles knew a few things that even the boys and Parker didn't. His co-worker, Vittorio Palma, janitor to the main building and dorms, was almost certainly a mob plant. Palma hadn't ever done harm, though, not that Charles could tell, and he'd rather keep quiet than end up like the kid's mom. Jesus Christ, _horrible_.

Trotta kicked the toe of Tepper's tennis shoe, his bare toes tangling in the laces. Tepper was smiling at him, which cut down on the chances of something being wrong. Charles felt momentary relief.

"I'm a good player, huh?" Tepper asked, still grinning.

"Not bad," replied Trotta, glancing up at his friend with a look that was shy and—well, _intimate_ , as little as Charles liked the word—all at once. He flicked some of Tepper's wet hair back from his forehead.

"C'mon, we're going to miss dinner," Trotta said, reaching for his Chucks.

Tepper caught his arm. "Wait. There's, uh, something I wanted—"

"You boys on your way out of here?" asked Charles, unable to stand and watch any longer. He was spying on business that wasn't his, never mind that he was doing so out of concern. He stepped into view with his mop and bucket, giving them a look that he hoped was both stern and patient.

"Yeah," Trotta said. "Sorry. Just a few minutes, all right?"

Charles shrugged, managed a sound of assent, and quickly walked away. If he started at the far end, they'd be gone by the time he got to where they'd been, and he wouldn't be in any danger of having to report something that he'd rather not happen on premeses that were his jurisdiction. Charles dipped his mop.

The other alternative was Palma's turf, and the thought wasn't comforting.

 

****

III. The Sophomore

If anything about life at Regis bugged Andy Mercatoris, it was that nobody seemed to remember his name.

You would think a name like his—originally Greek, too many syllables—would set a guy apart, but neither the teachers, nor any of his older peers, could get it. He was glad that the sophomore class was generally tight, because standing up to the rest of Regis on your own wasn't something you wanted to do—especially not with the likes of Josh McAllister prowling the halls. The guy was a joker, but not in the same way Billy Tepper was. Billy Tepper was actually, well, kind of _cool_. McAllister was a sick fuck.

Lately, though, Andy was kind of worried about Billy's reputation. He didn't look forward to re-assessing his role models and having to pretend that, no, of _course_ he didn't look up to a fag.

He was trying to explain to Gube, that thick dunderhead of a junior, why his acquaintance by way of Hank was very quickly becoming a dodgy guy with whom to be associated.

"...that Billy and Joey were behind it, probably," said Andy, slowly and carefully.

"Trotta? Yeah, right," Gube said. "Haven't seen him in detention lately."

"Maybe that's my point," Andy added, lowering his voice.

The junior's eyebrows knit in what looked like confusion. The poor, dumb fuck.

"If you're trying to say Tepper covers for him, hell, I can believe that," Gube said, his voice casual and clueless. "Billy's a decent guy. I like him."

"No, I'm trying to say he likes Joey, emphasis on the like," Andy said, scanning the caf for a free table. He was better off just sticking to discussing how gross the food on their trays was, if you could even call it food.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Joey's profile turning sharply back to the lunch-line guy who was serving him.

"You okay, man?" Gube asked, tilting his head toward the nearest empty table. "Let's sit."

"Sure," said Andy, giving Joey one last glance. He'd have to watch his back, because Billy had caught onto the whole vendetta thing like it was second nature.

 

****

IV. José

Of all the kids he had to feed, José Alvarez thought, spooning the sausages onto Joey Trotta's tray, none of them had it better or worse than the guy standing in front of him. God, what he wouldn't have given to have that kind of money growing up—but Jesus Christ, what he _would_ have given to make a guy like Albert Trotta stop what he was doing so that his kid wouldn't have to live with it. Yeah, maybe his life. He'd had a younger sister and two younger brothers. If it would've meant killing his old man and going down with him and putting an end to the bullshit, he'd have done it. He'd been in prison before. It wasn't unimaginable.

José watched Joey take a seat at an empty table, and it wasn't long until Billy Tepper joined him. They started talking—Joey looked irritated at Billy for surprising him, and Billy looked kind of apologetic. A few more students handed him their trays, but his mind was on auto-pilot. He couldn't quite make out what was going on until he'd finished serving.

"Bullshit," he thought he heard Joey mumble. "You're right and you know it."

That was enough to catch José's attention. He looked up, but wasn't prepared for what he saw.

Without warning, Billy reached across the table and took hold of Joey's wrist. There was a little more conversation, but their voices had dropped down too far for him to make it out. Billy's hand stayed exactly where it was. Joey was smiling at him as if he didn't seem to mind, or maybe he was just amused and waiting for Billy to pull his hand away as if he'd been burnt, and they'd laugh it off.

José jumped, almost dropping the empty pan he'd pried out of its steaming slot.

"Would you watch where you put that thing, Chico?" snapped Joe Lutz, tossing a potholder at him.

"Sure, _gringo_ ," José muttered, and carried the pan to the sink.

Next time Billy was on pots and pans, maybe he'd ask if everything was all right. He'd seen the worst kind of that shit go down in the slammer, but this wasn't the same thing. If Billy was having problems with it, maybe he needed an ear less partial or potentially temperamental than the target of his affection.

Besides, Holy _Mother_ of God, Joey Trotta needed all the guys looking out for him that he could possibly get.

 

****

V. McAllister

Any idiot with halfway decent observational skills could tell: it was going to be an interesting year.

Josh considered his observational skills fully decent, if not exceptional. They were what had tipped him off to the class prank in freshman year, which he was then able to subvert, sabotage, and expand upon, and they were what kept him up to date on who was hanging with whom, who was fighting with whom, and, in some cases, who was fucking whom. The latter, while surprisingly uncommon, was the most useful for blackmail.

It was going to be an interesting year mostly because his observational skills had picked up on the fact that somebody relatively important was fucking somebody _very_ important. Better yet, Mr. Relatively Important—Billy Tepper—was a new guy, and new guys were always easier to get in buttloads of trouble than guys who had been around a while and thus established firm reputations. Mr. Very Important, Joey Trotta, was a sniveling snot of a time bomb, and Josh was dead sure that Billy was, at long last, the perfect detonator.

God, the way he was grinning at Joey just now, all soppy over his shoulder while Mrs. Kane shuffled her papers at the desk, made Josh want to puke. He leaned over and elbowed Richardson.

"What did I tell you?"

Richardson snorted, shoving Josh's arm away, but he looked like he wanted to laugh.

Josh sat back in his seat, mildly disappointed. Wasn't anybody else _watching_? It was absolutely—wait, no. Of _course_ somebody else was watching, and that somebody was Very Important.

He glanced across the aisle at Joey, whose eyes were glued to his notebook a little too hard.

 _Yeah, you heard me,_ Josh thought, satisfied, and got down to plotting his next move.

 

****

VI. Phil

He couldn't stop watching them. From the second they all moved in together, he just fucking _couldn't_.

Phil and Joey had been friends, or at least sort-of-friends, ever since Joey arrived at Regis halfway through the first semester of sophomore year. He'd been the one to help smooth things over between Joey and Hank after the fight on the soccer field, and he'd introduced Joey to Snuffy, which he was sure at the time would turn out to be a fatal move. Joey and Ric were perfectly fine with each other, but they didn't seem to care whether they eventually became buddy-buddy or not. Mostly, Phil had just felt sorry for Joey, but, over time, he realized there was a lot more to the single most talked-about guy in Regis history. 

And he realized there was a lot more even than _that_ when Billy Tepper got plugged into the equation, out of the blue, during summer term before junior year. Coming back to Regis to find Joey closer to the new guy than he was to any of his established friends had been kind of insulting at the time, but Phil wasn't one to hold grudges for long. Snuffy, on the other hand, was, and the result was that Hank spent a lot of time sitting on Snuffy until his temper had the chance to evaporate into a haze of Camel smoke.

Phil leaned closer to the window, widening the gap in the blinds just a little more.

Billy and Joey were already out on the quad. Where they were going was anybody's guess, but that wasn't what concerned Phil. What concerned him was that Billy was holding Joey's hand in near-broad daylight, and the sunset was going to wash them in its last bright rays at any second. The sight was startling, worrying, and breathtaking all at once. Phil was no homophobe, but he also knew what he was, and that was emphatically _straight_. Knowing Snuffy for any amount of time got somebody over the willies of dubious sexual orientation very quickly, and there was also the fact Ric had been a dancer before he turned soccer star.

 _It doesn't matter_ , Phil told himself, letting the blinds slip shut. _It changes nothing_.

Later, when they came back wind-stung and silent as stones, Phil closed his English book and pretended to be asleep. They left the room again quickly, neither one saying a word, and when they returned from the bathroom, toothbrushes clicking on desk and dresser tops, he had to shut his eyes again quickly. There was a strain to the silence, as if what had gone on outside—or wherever they'd gone—was a secret to close in the darkest of silences. After they'd turned the lights out, Phil opened his eyes and lay awake for a while. Across the room, Joey was restless on the top bunk, but Billy seemed frozen in spite of his heavy breaths.

In the morning, neither of them got up as Phil went about the business of getting ready for class. He hesitated for a moment over packing his bag, wondering if he ought to give Joey a nudge and tell him to get Billy's ass out of bed so they wouldn't all get a talking-to for dicking around. On his way out, Phil threw the nearest sock—he didn't know whose—at Joey's head, but Joey didn't stir. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes.

 _It changes nothing_ , Phil repeated, like a mantra, and closed the door hard behind him.

*****

It wasn't the best way to spend a Monday evening, Billy knew. They had homework, and Joey was trying his best to remind him of that every five minutes or so. Still, neither of them got up to switch off the battered old rec room television. The air conditioning had kicked in, and the room was comfortable in spite of the bad ventilation. 

Having Joey's legs casually draped across his lap was also comfortable, and hopefully the paperclip Billy had used to jam the doorknob would hold until the _Double Dare_ reruns were over. Billy ran his fingers along Joey's waistline, still amazed that he could _do_ that now, and dipped them down under the rough denim to stroke the sharp contour of Joey's hip. Just that morning, _just_ that morning, he'd...

Billy wasn't sure what happened first: the part where he'd started kissing Joey, or the part where Joey was unfastening his jeans so that Billy could get his hand farther inside. Either way, he wasn't complaining, and the racket from the television was going to be enough to cover whatever sounds Joey might make. God, he was _so_ quiet; not like Billy at all. Billy felt his cheeks heating, but he wasn't sure whether it was the kiss or his hand teasing at the waistband of Joey's boxers or flashing back to how loud he'd been in bed.

"Billy," Joey was saying, almost too soft to hear, his breath coming fast and shallow. " _Billy_."

"Mmm," Billy murmured, sympathetically, gently sucking on Joey's lower lip. "You okay?"

"No," Joey whispered, shoving his hips up under Billy's hand, frustrated. "You're about to jerk me off, and somebody could bust that doorknob at any second."

"I'll stop if you want," Billy said, reasonably, but his brain was screaming at him for it.

" _Asshole_ ," Joey gasped, his mouth briefly latching onto Billy's neck. "Of course I don't _want_ you to, I'm just saying— _fuck_. Billy." His whisper went fierce, almost helpless.

"I want you to come," Billy was saying under his breath, his mouth crushed to Joey's cheek, his ear, his jaw. He slipped his hand down to Joey's hard-on in one quick movement, not thinking. If there was anything he was thinking, it was that the only thing that mattered to him was in his arms right now, and fuck, didn't everybody know anyway?

Soundlessly, Joey was gasping something. There was no way to tell _what_ , but Joey's fingers were on Billy's arm, in his hair, at his cheek, oh, everywhere. To hell with _talk_. Joey already knew, too.

"I love you," Billy told him, not quite as softly as Joey might have done, but softly enough.

He held Joey tightly while he came, gritted his teeth as Joey's fingernails dug a shocked, stinging line into his upper arm. In the silence afterward, Joey settled into him with something almost like a moan, but not quite. Billy shifted, willing himself to calm down; he wasn't so stupid as to assume they would have time for Joey to reciprocate, and he wanted to hold Joey for as long as the ending credits would permit. Uneasily, he kissed Joey's forehead. Had he really meant to say it _now_?

Joey was trying to reach the dusty box of tissues off the dusty old filing cabinet that served as an end table, but he was also trying not to pull away from Billy. Billy reached over and got it for him, finding it pretty much impossible to leave making eye contact up to Joey. What he saw wasn't discouraging, but it wasn't clear, either. Joey's expression was dazed, but it was also somewhere between remorse and curiosity. He blinked, snapping out of it.

"Yeah, you too," he said, letting his hand with the tissues in rest on Billy's shoudler for a second before starting to mop at his stomach. "But, um, aren't you—" Joey paused, wiggling a bit for emphasis.

Billy's relief was so vast it could've swallowed them both.

"Nope, I'm good," he said, and grabbed some of the Kleenex with his messy hand. "Got exactly what I wanted."

"Like you always do," Joey said, tossing a wad of Kleenex onto the floor. He was grinning like an idiot, but Billy realized it wouldn't do any good to comment, because he was grinning, too.

Any talk that got you Joey Trotta couldn't _possibly_ be cheap.


End file.
